


Just Like You Wanted

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Pie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-08
Updated: 2012-08-08
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:44:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's funny how, sometimes, other people know what you need better than you know yourself. Even where pie is involved. Or: Dean gets cockblocked by somebody's grandma over a piece of pie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like You Wanted

We pulled into Santa Fe after two in the morning and I had to stop. Needed some coffee in the worst way and since I was driving, Dean couldn't do a damn thing about it.

He'd been down for a few days, draggy and quiet.

We'd let a ghost get a little too far ahead of us up in Colorado, and it had taken out this elderly couple, startled and frail and unawares, right in front of Dean. Taunted him about it, too, before I could get the fire to catch and the bones to burn.

He wouldn't tell me what it said. But whatever it was was still bugging him, still dragging him down, almost a week later.

He was letting me drive, which tells you how not himself he was, then.

So, Santa Fe. Headed to Claremont in California. Nothing urgent, which is why I’d chosen it, why we were going. It was just some general weirdness associated with an old house, someplace out in a canyon they were trying to clear for development. Looked interesting, but not dangerous. Still. I wanted to get there. Get him off the road and let him rest. Make him, if I had to.

But to do that, I needed caffeine. So I pulled into a diner, one of those tiny places tucked inside a truck stop, and woke him up with a smack.

He grumbled, but he didn't fight me as I tugged him inside, tossed him into the booth, and threw a menu at his head.

He was all dark circles and bloodshot, in serious need of a shave. Or a lawnmower.

My instinct was to fuss over him, to pet him and bitch and make sure he ate a decent meal, even at 2 AM.

So I went with the opposite approach: pretend everything's fine. The patented Winchester way.

"Dude. Seriously."

"What?" he mumbled.

"Please tell me you're not ordering cherry. Again."

He gave me this look, and even though his face was still clouded with sleep, the message was clear: shut the fuck up, Sam.

I sighed, maybe a little bigger than usual. "I don't care what you eat, man. It's just that you're kind of—stuck in a rut."

He rolled his eyes and trapped the menu under his palm.

"A rut," he repeated. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Well—" I said. "It kinda is. I mean, you're just repeating yourself day after day. Same food. Same music. Same conversations. I mean, you're just ordering cherry pie so you can make your one Warrant joke for like the nine hundredth time."

And that must have done something, because he grinned. Leaned over and gave me this slow, sleepy wink. "Am I boring you, Sam? Is that what you mean? Is it not as exciting as it used to be?"

He did that thing with his voice, dropped it from normal, everyday Dean to throw-me-down-and-fuck-me-through-the-floor Dean in a split second.

I hate that he can do that without a flinch and that I can't hear it without going four shades of red.

Which I did.

Which only made him laugh, still in that floor-fucking vein. Thick and dirty. And, ok, yes. That was an improvement.

"You know," he breathed, letting his fingers brush mine. "I'm sure we could get our food to go."

And before I could determine the incredibly lame/incredibly hot ratio in that sentence: the waitress arrived.

She was sunny and cheerful, white curls and coral lipstick and a big name tag that said "Mabel."

Snapped the sexy right the fuck in two, she did.

We both ordered coffee and Dean ordered his fucking cherry pie.

Or tried to.

But the words had barely left his mouth when Mabel shook her head.

"Hmm—cherry?" she said, all bright smile and blue wash. "No, I don't think so, honey. I'll bring you the strawberry-rhubarb instead. Trust me. That's what you really want."

And she was off before Dean could pick his jaw up from the friggin' table, his exhaustion, his depression, forgotten in a flash of baked goods indignation.

"What—did she? Sam. Come on. She did not just—!"

"Dean," I say, leaning long across the table. "You just got cockblocked by somebody's grandma. Over some pie."

He just sat there, spluttering, while I laughed and watched him flail.

It was awesome.

"She!" he managed, his arms going every which way. "My _pie_. Who does that!?"

He was three parts bewildered and one part utterly pissed. Which just made it that much funnier, the great Dean Winchester cowed by a member of AARP.

I hid behind my water glass and snickered.

He glared over at me. Gave me the pointed finger of righteousness.

"This isn't funny, Sammy. You don't mess with a man's pie."

Then Mabel sailed over and shut him up in a snap. Set coffee between us and presented Dean's pie to him like it was a goddamn trophy, some kind of Holy of Holys.

"There," she said, turning the plate just so. "Strawberry-rhubarb. Just like you wanted."

And Dean, for all his badass bluster behind her back, lost his fucking nerve.

"Uh, ok," he said meekly. "Thanks."

She waved us off with a "You boys enjoy!" and dropped back into the line of ball caps at the counter.

And then: détente.

Dean stared at the pie.

The pie kinda looked like it was staring back. Just daring him to make a move. All pink and golden and sweet.

"You gonna eat that or eyefuck it?" I said, just to get his goat.

It worked.

He gave me the death glare and grabbed his fork like it was Excalibur. Made sure I was watching as he shot it into the crust and crowded a huge bite into his mouth. Chewed that bite hard. Defiant.

But then something in his face shifted, went from pissed off to blissed out in this soft wave of ahhh.

"Dude," he said, spewing crumbs everywhere. "This. Is awesome."

And he tore through it, got every bit of crust he could, and I swear I had to stop him from licking the plate.

"Seriously?" I said, catching his wrist. "Come on."

He smiled up at me, all sugar and sweet.

"I love this pie, Sam," he said. "I wanna marry it and make it have my cupcake babies."

My face twisted. "Ok, ew, and no," I said, pulling the plate away from him.

"What the hell is rhubarb, anyway?" he chirped. "I don't even know what it looks like. And I don't care! Love is blind, man. It knows no boundaries."

"Drink your fucking coffee," I told him, trying not to grin like an idiot. Pretty much failing.

He did, slurping and whistling and generally tweeting around the whole time.

And that's something I love about Dean: for all the fucked-up that is our lives most of the time, he has this amazing ability to sniff out moments of happiness, these little flashes of something good, and just hang on to them as hard as he can. He can wring all the happy out of a bad movie, or a decent bottle of bourbon, or a rainy afternoon in the middle of summer where we get lazy, sit around all day and read or watch baseball or make out until one of us gets the energy to make it into something more.

I guess it's something he's learned, something I never have, to embrace what's right in front of him. Make the most of the here and now. Me, I've always got one eye looking ahead, planning for tomorrow, worrying over what might never be. And so does he, most days. But he can turn it off sometimes, lose himself in the moment, in me, and be happy.

Even if it only lasts as long as a sliver of pie.

I must have been staring, because he smiled and tapped my cheek.

"Drink up, kiddo," he said. "We got miles to go before we sleep."

"Does that mean you're driving?" I asked, watching him dig cash out of his jacket.

"Maybe," he said. Enigmatic.

He tucked a twenty under his plate and stood up.

"Dude, don't you want change?" I asked.

"Nah," he said, tugging me up by the shoulders. "She earned it. Never woulda ordered that for myself." He leaned back a little and grinned into my face. "And you gotta go with something new now and then, you know? Gotta keep it interesting."

"Yeah," I said. "Sure." Smiling, because he was Dean again, Sleeping Beauty awakened by strawberries and a golden crust.

Outside, he grabbed the keys from my pocket and slid behind the wheel.

"Get some sleep," he ordered, like I was five years old or something.

I rolled my eyes. "Dean, jesus, I just had like a gallon of coffee, so I'm—"

He did that cat-panther-spring thing and got right up in my face. Curled his fingers around my neck and brushed his mouth over mine. Soft. Just enough to put every nerve in my face on red alert.

"Sleep now," he said, his lips skating over my cheek. "Because when we get there, Sammy, I'm not gonna give you the chance."

"You're not?" I breathed.

He stroked my neck for a minute, humming against my jaw.

"No," he said. "You gotta problem with that?"

"Uh," I said, feeling my eyes fluttering. "No."

He wound himself away and turned the key. Left me grinning and shivering in the dark.

Mission accomplished.

"Good night, Sammy," he sang.

I said a silent thanks to Mabel and drifted off, my lips crowded with the crumbs of Dean's kisses and the promise of more to come.


End file.
